"Not tonight," he says, eyes fluttering shut, though the reminder of his small network of stalkers keeps him from relaxing entirely, deepening the crease between his brows, instead of easing it. He's used to being followed, to being watched, and while there are days he simply lets it happen, doesn't try to run, they are becoming few and far between. The island is small enough already to induce a certain claustrophobia without the addition of his network of followers, and he's come so close in the past couple of weeks to snapping, to taking out his frustration on children. (And Stark, but at least he's done more to earn Bucky's ire than watch him from the trees.)

"I know they're just kids, but..."